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Crosscrash
category:Classic OtherSpace Logs "Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable." -- John F. Kennedy Barracks - Earth - A reinforced metal shack, about the length of a football field, only about half the space is used to contain the usual population of about 150 alien prisoners. The "thumbprint," an oval-shaped containment area, is surrounded by iron fencing and bordered by catwalks and observation platforms manned by Guardian Fleet soldiers on a rotation. The south side of the building is reserved for inmate processing and the warden's office. Silvereye is sitting next to the unconscious Razorfang, staring blankly into space while the camp passes him by. Harris is sat in the corner, so ordered, with his eyes closed. He might be asleep, he might not be asleep. Are you going to be the one to wake him up if he is? Well, do ya feel lucky punk? Do ya? Upon the other side of the camp, all is however not as quiet. In fact, the atmosphere there is enough to get the Guardian Fleet officers up on the catwalk interested in the proceedings down below. The noise soon builds up to numerous shouting, as well as the rattling of a fence, and out of the midst of it all a somewhat scared looking Timonae dashes out from the crowd. Behind him, in hot pursuit, a somewhat angered looking Snowcat sharply follows on his heels. Harris opens one eye, he is a /very/ light sleeper. Still, he's very tired, and he hurts in all places it is possible for a humanoid to hurt, and... well, let the skipper have his fun, maybe the pressure has gotten to him. He supposes he might have to get up and help that poor Timonae in a minute. In a minute. Crazy cat. Silvereye yawns, placing a paw over his muzzle as sleep tries once more to take him. He too watches the strange race, not thinking much of it, Silvereye doesn't stir, but watches Darktail pound the dirt between himself and the Timonae. Thoughts of why, how, what's to eat...All of these flash through the Demarians brain as he watches, content to remain a bump on a log. Some may notice the fleeing Timonae as the one who caused a rather large cut upon the face of Christine Tarkovsky after accusing her of being a spy. It is this same Timonae who Darktail also prevented from acting on a shove he gave the Ungstiri girl. Right now, it is this Timonae who the Snowcat is gaining upon at an alarming velocity. Only, he doesn't need to catch up with him, for all it takes is a single agile and very feline leap, and the Timonae is dragged to the ground after losing the ability of his legs. Behind them both, the onlookers all shout a myriad of different things; some yell for the Demarian to let go of the Timonae, some revel in the conflict, but the majority all seem to shout one thing in unision: "Spy!" Harris sighs morbidly, but nonetheless some extra police-chromosome in the man's DNA compels him to claw his way back to his feet and lumber over to sort it all out. Not that he's in any huge rush, mind you, better to get there /after/ there's much fight left in anyone, less dangerous, very wise. He thrusts his hands into his pockets and begins shouldering his way through the growing crowd. Silvereye growls, his view is being obstructed by the prisoners! Just when it was getting good, too...The Demarian rises to his footpaws, padding over toward Darktail, getting the blood circulating throughout his body a little better. For his part, it seems that - though the Snowcat had the Timonae in a very pinned and prone position - his whole feline rage, though seeming to have the ferocity of a tempest behind it, is mostly for show. It's not actually that evident to the general onlooker, but the fact that the Timonae still has a face, and that the Demarians claws are no where to be seen, are good indications of the main fact at hand. In fact, Darktail just seems to be... batting the Timonae to death. "He's a spy!" The Snowcat yells, "They sent him in there to watch over you all! To befriend you, then stab you in the back! All for his own gain! How many others are there like him here?! How many of your friends are actually planning against you?!" Loud, forceful, but appealing to the masses, who all seem utterly aghast at the revelation. The Officers above don't look what's going on as they watch, yelling commands that fall on deaf ears. The spark... Ooooh. Very cunning. Harris isn't fooled by the half-arsed way Darktail is attacking the Timonae, he could have had his throat on the floor by now. He clicks his tongue, not that anyone would notice under the hubbub, then promptly adds stridently, "One of them told me they put drugs in the food to keep us all docile!" And, just in case this weren't enough to enflame the situation, he picks a likely looking punter, punches him in the ear and moves on, hands back in his pockets, before the man can register the blow. Silvereye reaches the crowd, standing on his tippy toes to get a look at the fake battle, also seeing it for what it truly is. "You know that building we can't go in? Yeah. I heard Eiger's been taken people-even humans!-Back there and injecting 'em full of stuff...Mutating them. I sure as hell ain't gonna let him do that to me." The Timonae, now curled up into a little ball, is soon swamped by a few more 'patriotic' members of Area 16's society. They dive upon him almost as soon as Darktail leaps off, the large Snowcat promptly throwing all his weight into his right shoulder as soon as he's on his feet and slamming into a human who is quite neatly thrown off his feet before he can even get a hold on what just hit him. "Root them out! Don't let them betray you! Stand up for who you are, for..." The Snowcat, avoiding a few people that lunge his way - either at him or at others around him - throws his fist into the air and proclaims one word that is sure to make even the most docile prisoner leap to his feet. "...LIBERTY!" Harris would've gone for a slightly less lofty concept himself. Start with 'better food' and possibly work his way /up/ to 'emancipation of the people', but still, he can't argue it seems to have started a fight well enough. A local seems to take the viewpoint that Harris looks a bit fishy (which, to be honest, is fair) and takes a swing. The Good Doctor idly catches the punch and pushes his would be attacker back into the throng. He works his way into the escalating brawl, occasionally using people's heads and stepping stones, until he reaches the triumphant Demarian, "... Well, I hope you're proud of yourself. What now, fearless leader?" Silvereye comes under attack by those that don't see eye to eye with Darktail, singling him out for being a Demarian. Silvereye dodges, pulling a few doubleslaps on his attackers, making his way to the center of the fray having taken only a few punches to the shoulder and gut. "Did we need to get them fighting each other?" Asks Silvereye, rubbing his chest and looking out for more attackers. "Now..." Darktail yells to Harris as the brawl and noise escalate around them, "...we have Operation Crosscrash underway!" Yes, the Snowcat seems quite intent and proud of the chaos he's caused. Even if it does mean he can't control any of it, and has no idea how it's going to all turn out. But, it's a start. "We'll just have to see if they," He gestures up at the Officers still barking commands of order, "Take the bait!" "They", up on the catwalks, indeed seem to take the bait. In a fashion. Finding vocal orders aren't getting them anywhere, the Guardian Fleet officers begin firing down into the rioting crowd. With stun weapons right now though. The occasional dart of blue energy sizzles down like lighting into the ocean of angry prisoners, hitting people at random... "Operation /Crosscrash/?" Harris yells over the din, contriving to suggest that he is not really of the opinion that a riot needs an operational designation. Still, before he can get heated on the subject, stun blasts start zinging past his ears, which always focuses the mind. He flicks his eyes upwards, probably making quite the tempting target. In one scarily fluid motion he darts out his good arm, hauling a rioter in front of himself just in time for two stun bolts to snap his human shield's head back instead of intersecting with the (obviously) more important cranium of the Good Doctor. Dropping his now-limp assistant like an unwanted doll, he continues patiently, "... I trust you actually /thought/ about the next part of the plan?" Silvereye does a little dance to try desperately to stay away from the debilitating stun blasts. This dance is only ceased as Harris sacrifices another for the Good Doctor. "Ok. Remind me not to get in front or to the side of you when danger comes a knocking, ok?" He turns to Darktail, still wary for the whine of stun blasts being fired. "Yes. Please say you didn't start this hell just for the sake of starting hell?" The Snowcat doesn't answer right away; it's hard to give a reply that coherant then you're diving to the side, narrowly avoiding a rogue stun blast that careens your way, only to hit some unlucky Odarite as the Demarian it was aimed for is no longer there. So, landing on his side at Silvereye's feet, tail draped across Harris's shoes, Darktail can only look up at the two with a somewhat innocent smile. "Of course I planned this! I just... don't know how it's going to purroceed." Yep, that's the admittance; he's winging it, and hoping for a resolution that benefits his plan. "Just... try not to get shot for the moment, and find Chrissy!" To hell with the rest of them right now. Up above, the Guardian Fleet Officers find that their method of quelling the riot - in all of it's unconventional glory - isn't working as quickly as they'd hoped. Thus, while a few of them quickly scatter to head down into the main complex outside Area 16, the few that remain continue with what they're doing. "She's over there, where I left her. I suggest someone go pick her up, she's in no state to walk out of here and I'm in no state to carry her." Harris makes a half-turn half-lean backwards to allow another blue crackle to pass over his shoulder, never actually taking his eyes off Darktail, "After that, I'm open to suggestions." Silvereye narrowly dodges a bolt that would have fried his neck, glancing towards Christine. "I can get her. We need fearless leader to try to direct this mob." The Demarian begins trying to get out of the crowd, heading for the far corner where Christine is stashed. Darktail drags himself to his feet before another zinger of blue energy makes contact with him, leaving a little sizzle mark in the ground where the Snowcat used to be. Yes, this is fun. Sort of. "I'm not interested about controlling it, only in how much of a threat we can make it so that..." He trails off, looking skywards at the now less than full-force officer numbers of patrol. Some have vanished? "...get Christine, head to the main gate, though a little way away. I'll meet you there... if this works to plan..." And thus, Darktail is swamped by the riot, though of his own doing, pushing his way to the gates. On the catwalks, the remaining officers continue what they're doing; randomly firing into the crowd in an effort to quell the storm through fear - though only serving to eliminate a few rain drops in the process, allowing the tempest to build to full force. The other officers that once supported them have now gone, completely out of sight. Where could they be? Meanwhile, alarm klaxons sound out overhead, echoing around the complex with furious warning to all below. Seems like things are really heating up now, leaving poor Marcus Harris stuck in the middle of a heaving throng of bodies, all vying to be the first to topple him or crack him in the face. He moves in quick, darting hops through the press of bodies. Pausing here to let a young man fall at his feet. Moving on. Ducking behind a woman to avoid another patter of stun-fire. Dropping a foot onto the back of someone's knee to fell them from his path. Stopping again. He looks around, but he's no chance of finding his Demarian compatriots in /this/ chaos. Silvereye has successfully made his way out of the crowd and to the sleeping Christine, his body a little worse for wear. The Demarian rubs at a tender shoulder that took one or two beatings during the course of his exodus. Being just a bit larger than the Ungstiri, Silvereye picks her up, holding her cradled in his arms. The Demarian begins heading towards the gate, trying to circumvent the crowd. There's a rumble outside the fencing; a vehicular rumble at that. Growling deeply at the riot as it's sound draws nearer, screeching at the sound that's thrown towards it as it heads towards the storm of anger. It's a cold, harsh, sound. The sound of something ominous arriving. Eventually, as the noise of this thing is added to the volume of the riot at hand, those on the edges of the chaos finally make out what spawns this sound of anger: A large and utterly hostile looking truck. Six large wheels, hard and ominous, drive the metallic bulk of the wide and armoured vehicle, painted in the colours of the Guardian Fleet, and bringing to bear people who hold that uniform. Bulky, and holding a lot of problems for those inside the fence... An observer from just outside the main crowd might be privileged to bear witness to the sight of a heavy-set Terran crumple with (if they were also blessed with remarkable hearing) a tiny whimper to reveal the bloodied, dirty, unshaven, lanky, /dark/ form of Doctor Harris looking - and there's only one way to describe it - slightly miffed. Glancing up from the fallen gentleman, he's amongst the first to see the new arrival in all its armour-plated glory, "... Oh..." is his response to this new development, "... Hell." The gate is within sight, the rendezvous point nearly reached...When the portal to the outside word opens. But it is not an angel of deliverance that passes through the portal, oh no. It is a demon spawned from the deepest Hell. The truck rumbles into camp, and Silvereye stops cold, not just for his sake, for he carries Christine in his arms. His back is against the shed, his head glancing around it. "Altheor's Teeth..." It perhaps comes as no surprise that, at the forefront of the ocean of people, standing near to the main entrance as the behemoth of a vehicle rolls in through the gates - opened wide enough to *just* let the truck in - Darktail can be found. A somewhat tattered looking Snowcat at that, putting the final claw into a Lunite that's in his way, his snowy fur tainted in places with spatters of blood that may or may not be his own. His tail is livid in it's sway, his ears on edge as he breaths heavy. Of course, that doesn't mean he's lost any of that SneakySnowcat™ charm. "They're here to silence us!" he proclaims, attempting to focus the fury of the riot onto the heavily armoured officers that disembark from the back of the truck, leaving only the driver and navigator in the cab. "Xenocide!" The word seems to carry weight. Xenocide. GF-106TA2 Tactical Transport has arrived. The GF-106TA2 tactical rapid transport is a fifteen-ton capacity, six-wheel drive armoured truck used for the quick transportation and deployment of all types of military personnel in a verity of conditions and situations. Long and bulky, it features an old-style method of mobility: wheels, and very large and durable ones at that. Capable of sustaining even weapons fire, the wheels are made of the highest quality material and interwoven metallic frame, adapting the truck for all kinds of terrain. Though lacking any hover systems, the truck has the advantage of not having clogged thrusters and being able to start in dusty locations, then stay alive while plowing through the thick of it. The cab is door less, though featuring protected glass upon it's windshield, while the back consists of a covered section where the actual troops are carried, along with basic rations and various other items they require in the field. Now it seems things have gone from 'slightly unpleasant' to 'possibly fatal'. Harris rides the wave that threatens to mob the newly-arrived soldiers, slipping a hand into his pocket as he's thrown heavily into the fray - and as it happens into a face full of Guardian Fleet body armour. His hand comes around backhanded in a single, terminal sweep that catches the guard across the throat and elicits a sudden fountain of blood. The little half-moon of glass (apparently from a pair of broken spectacles) glints in the spotlights, whilst Harris merely stares at his gargling victim for a moment, somewhere between self-recrimination and outrage, "Line." He whispers, then disappears under the sea of legs in an effort to retrieve a weapon. Silvereye watches the mob swarm the vehicle from his vantage point around the corner of the shed as he contemplates his next move. The Demarian, encumbered by Christine, tentatively leaves his post, heading for the rear of the truck and possible escape. The remaining Guardian Fleet Officers of the Anti-Riot variety are soon awash in the ocean of people. They spread out in teams of two - save for one lone officer who can't find his partner - into the riot, beating and shooting as they see fit, bringing down one after another of the riots in their way. It is at this point that fear begins to set in, and threatened with death some of the riots begin to flee into other areas of the compound, dragging unwilling rioters with them. This, as the Officers give chase, results in a problem: The mass of people around the truck is dropping. The storm is passing. But most of all, the clock is ticking... That ticking isn't something that is beyond Darktail, and in a final act of urgency the Snowcat claws his way through those in his path in a sheer display of feline agility and deadly intent. His destination? The cab of the truck, and the somewhat uncertain looking drivers within. However, as he makes it there, the lone Riot Officer spots him, and - raising weapon - takes aim. Harris is awash in a sea of legs; jostling, stomping and sometimes outright deliberately kicking. He holds tight to the jerking form of the Fleeter, who's still busily in the process of bleeding to death, and - with a final grunt - manages to snap the strap holding the man's rifle to his chest. The first shot goes into the back of the man's neck, Harris - with uncharacteristic squeamishness - averting his gaze before he does it. Hauling himself to his feet, he holds the rifle at arm's length with his right hand (hampering his aim somewhat) and backs against the gate. He sees Darktail's dilemma quickly enough, but where Harris is on the passenger side of the vehicle, Darktail is not. He fires twice nonetheless, but both bolts ricochet harmlessly off the passenger-side window, "SKIPPER!" is about all the warning his can offer. Harris has a gun! Silvereye redirects his course from the rear of the truck to the front, kicking and biting his way through the work campers, trying his darndest to avoid Guardian Fleet'ers. A knee is sent into the last work camper between himself and Harris, the Demarian thudding against the van, breathing heavily with the burden on his arms. The warning is enough to make Darktail react first, then think later: All of which results in the Snowcat diving into the cab of the truck when the Officer fires his first startled round, the second hitting where the Demarian was a moment or two ago. Thus, with the advent of one shocked looking navigator being thrown out of one side of the Truck's cab, and the driver following moments later - with deep claw marks on his face - it's pretty safe to say that because of the actions of Marcus Harris, Darktail now has ownership of a truck. And his life. The Guardian Fleet Officer, annoyed about the warning given to the alien target, decides to take aim at Harris now instead. Harris was well aware of Darktail's intent, and was already running in that direction well before the Demarian even got to shredding the occupants of the cab. In fact, so intent was he on reaching this goal that he very nearly doesn't notice the man deciding that Sivadians make better targets. He drops, rolling to a stop near to the passenger-side front tire, and unleashes a hail of burst-fire underneath the truck. It's not particularly scientific or accurate - half the bullets hit the unlucky prone form of the driver, some of the others clip the legs out from underneath the Officer, sending him to the ground screaming, if not dead yet. Then he uses the passenger-side step to get back to his feet, and clearing his throat impatiently, knocks on the passenger-side window. Silvereye, noting that there is in fact no door preventing him from entering the transport, gets ready to embark, or perhaps fight his way into the cab. Seeing Harris challenge the open hole confidently, Silvereye gets ready to embark after the good shooting Doctor. Stupid damn cat. Harris fires a volley over the heads of the rioters, just so everyone still knows he's there, then he not-so-gently thrusts Silvereye and cargo towards the yawning cab. He himself clambers up onto the bonnet, and from there onto the roof of the cab, smacking it smartly with his palm. The ensuing chaos that surrounds the truck has meant that for the most part the officers on the ground haven't notice that a trio of rebels have just committed Grand Theft Truck on the Guardian Fleet's fancy armoured behemoth - and that's on top of inciting Rebellion, and a myriad of other things, and THEN some. However, that's not to say the ones on the Catwalks are blind to the proceedings below, and the stealing of one of their vehicles, for they haven't... and now proceed to unload a variety of slug-weapons down onto the truck, and anyone around it, in a glorious spray of high powered slug weaponry. GF-106TA2 Tactical Transport The main Cab of the Transport is of a wide four-seated verity, adding to the GF-106TA2 Tactical Transport's wide and bulky image of power. The dashboard is a complicated affair, full of electronics and gadgets, but the normal feature of a steering wheel and the usual pedals are all there. Draconian, but still effective. The back of the Transport is far from special, however. It mostly consists of an open space, with seating on both sides, and a storage area at the front for provisions and equipment. Inside the transport, a certain Snowcat at the Drivers seat, watching the ricochet of bullet deflect just below his side of the truck, can be found attempting to hotwired the vehicle. A task made somewhat easier with a certain tool: A sharp pointed device of silver that looks suspicious like a part of a certain Sivadian's glasses. Suffice to say, the low rumble of the Transport is heralded by a somewhat proud - if not out of breath - proclamation of "Got it!", indicating to all that the Snowcat's skills at illegally hot wiring things are still quite on form. Getting familiar with how this vehicle works as quickly as he can, the Demarian places one paw on the steering wheel, the other moving to switch the directional control lever from 'neutral' to 'forward', before moving the power level from 'idle' to around twenty-percent of forward motional speed. Oh yes, this is fun... "I'm putting her in back!" Silvereye declares to Darktail, deciding to manage the task while the vehicle is not moving. The Demarian climbs over seats gingerly, hitting his head at least twice in an effort to navigate the steel bars. Once back, Silvereye finally lays down Christine, keeping her as flat and comfortable as the situation permits. Repeated and loud bursts of something that sounds like an air horn bellow out above the noise of the riot followed by the much larger rumble of the Transports engine kicking in. At first it seems like the vehicle heads forward threatening to mow down various rioters and officers alike under it's heavy wheels. Before the driver finally figures out how to reverse in one of these though the delay in operation allows the Officers on the Catwalks to rain a few more rounds of slug fire upon the Truck's cab a few managing to break through the armour leaving pinholes of light to shine through. A somewhat hasty three-point turn is made swinging the large truck around before finally with the feline driver flooring it quite heavily the Transports builds up speed and rockets past any in it's way pelted with bullet fire as it roars out of Area 16's holding area... The Officers on the ground quickly take advantage of the freedom of being able to close the gate now the truck is out of the way; containing the rioters once more, and setting to work suppressing them under Terran oppression once more. With the instigators of this little Rebellion now out of the way, the majority of the crowd gives in to fear, lacking a drive. The spark has gone from the fire. Area 16 Work Camp - Earth - A dusty prison facility in the midst of a rocky desert, the Area 16 Extraterrestrial Labor Redirection Complex - also known as the Area 16 Work Camp - is a dreary destination for the Guardian Fleet soldiers who stand watch in the sniper towers along the 40-foot-high concrete walls. So, just imagine what a party it is for the aliens who have the misfortune of falling into the clutches of Earth's military forces and "disappearing" to this awful place. At night, spotlights sweep the compound and guards patrol with deadly black mastiffs. A metal-roofed prefab building serves as the one-size-fits-all barracks for the prisoners. Off to the east sits a cramped-looking box with a door and a locking latch. Spotlights quickly sweep onto a suspicious looking and fast moving behemoth of a Transport, the snipers operating them quickly clicking that something is wrong. While the weapons fire from behind subsides, and the riot along with it is contained, that rainfall of bullets is quickly replaced by a shower of sniper fire and the occasion opportunist round of automatic fire as the Vehicle roars past, picking up battle scars along the way. It seems almost like a surreal irony that at this dangerous and death cheating time, the beautifully haunting music of an operatic version of 'Ave Maria' begins to kick in, the lyrics flowing loudly from the cab of the transport, providing a chillingly eerie backdrop amidst the chaos. >> "Ave Maria gratia plena..." You have to bear in mind, whilst everyone else is nice and snug inside an armoured vehicle, Mark Harris is laid prone across the top of the cab trying his best to avoid the majority of the fire whilst simultaneously returning fire /and/ attempting to not fall off whilst Darktail works out the intricacies of reverse-gear. Something has to give, and it does, with a muffled rumble the man slips sideways - and is saved from falling in the dirt only by dint of managing to catch hold of the truck aerial with his recently-dislocated left arm, leaving him dangling and screaming just outside the passenger-side opening >> "Dominus tecum..." It takes a lot to tame the bulky mass of the vehicle he's gunning towards freedom - now in forward gear - and while the sniper fire and the blinding spotlights do nothing to aid matters, the Snowcat driver seems to have things under control. Well, as best he can, anyhow. Still bloodied from the escape and showing signs of fatigue, the Demarian is running on pure adrenaline as much as the truck is running on speed. Of the numerous sounds of weapons fire hitting the armoured vehicle, one sounds out as being muffled somehow; yet, the mystery has to wait for a moment as, while still gunning the vehicle for all it's worth, Darktail leans across to offer a supportive paw to a dangling Sivadian. >> "Benedicta tu in mulierbus..." Harris doesn't have an arm to /spare/, he'll be damned if he's letting go of his gun after just getting one back. Nonetheless, he extends the barrel, and - with some building of momentum, they manage to swing the man into the cab. He settles down in the passenger seat and casts a quick glance over his shoulder. He attempts to gauge what the opposition are doing by craning his head out of the side of the truck, only to whip it hastily back in upon drawing sniper-fire, "Great plan, skip. Superlative. Really. Machiavellian in its intricacies. Now what?" >> "Et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus..." "We're gonna RAM IT!" The Snowcat yells, edging forward in his seat despite the ricochets of accurate sniper fire that deflect off the armoured windshield in front of his, his whiskers arching back towards his cheeks as his floors it with all due haste. The result is that the Vehicle heads over speeds it wasn't designed to do, barreling towards a second gate that's quickly being closed in front of him. "I'd suggest you duck..." >> "Sancta Maria, Sancta Maria..." Harris dutifully slips down into the floorwell on the passenger side and begins going through the contents of the glove-compartment, piling up what might be useful and tossing what plainly isn't out of the truck. Map, good. Driving gloves, don't need those. Ooh, chocolate bar, he's just about managed to unwrap his prize and take a bite when the vehicle hits... >> "Maria ora pro nobis, nobis peccatoribus..." "Five seconds to contact; here we go! CROSSCRAAAASH!" For just a moment, everything seems to slow down with dream like proportions; the sound of the Vehicle hitting the gate doesn't even seem to exist, the entire scene playing in slow motion as the bulk of the vehicle collides with the equal bulk of the gate. The bullets that rain upon the vehicle all seem to subside, save only for the deflecting marks and holes they leave behind. People run from the behemoth's path, yet their yells and orders are all without voice. For a moment, a perfect state of serenity buffers the moment between oppression and liberty, bathed in the beauty and surrealistic sound of "Ave Maria"... ...Only to suddenly and loudly come crashing back to reality as the vehicle speeds away, threatening to fishtail before being forcefully brought back under control, bullets and energy fire following in it's wake, pelting the now dilapidated transport. Yet, the dust from it's wheels provide a somewhat welcome sight for the driver, as well as the reflection in the rear view mirror of a compound quickly shrinking into the horizon, though with a grim message below it as a reminder that freedom is only relative to their position: "Objects in mirror are closer than they appear." >> "Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen." Desert - Earth Though a desert in name, there is very little in the way of rolling dunes or swirling deep golden sand that does the name justice. Lying largely in shadow cast by the rocky mountains that overlook it all, this desert is a dry, desolate area, carpeted largely with sagebrush and creosote. Ridges of marvelously formed, steep, red-brown peaks extends all the way across the vast region, complimented by a carpet of jagged trees, towering over the desert landscape. A few daring rivers flow into remnant lakes or playas, the unfortunate of the creed left to dry up and die in desolate alkali sinks. Sandstone vistas play across clear backdrops of wasteland, yet within it all a strange majesty remains. Volcanic mesas pillow the areas of red sand where the flats remain untouched. It is, if nothing else, vast and insanely open, seeming to continue towards infinity with it's wide open flats of red and it's rocky vistas dappled in a myriad of other tones. Yet, in the heavens above, the sky burns with a clarity of untouched wilderness, providing the finishing touches to this conflicting and expansive landscape. That's all a bit deep for Marcus Christopher Harris, M.D. He's just happy he's got something remotely pleasant to eat, being a man who likes his creature comforts. This doesn't stop him from unleashing a frantic burst of one-handed fire from the rifle at the very second they pass through the checkpoint. He carefully clambers down onto the passenger-side step and continues to provide covering fire as the truck races off into the night, chocolate bar sticking out of his mouth, "Web, I duddo." He rips the confectionary from his mouth and swallows heavily, glancing into the cab from his perch half-outside the vehicle, "A little bit too easy for my liking... Can you get that radio working? We might be able to pick up a news broadcast." It seems that, after a few moments of silence, all that answers Harris is a light click of some kind of auto-pilot kicking in, driving the vehicle to a predetermined point of safety, apparently somewhat that Darktail's done only moments after crashing through the gate and into freedom. However, as for radio, and for most of the other equipment, the outcome isn't as good. Bullet holes riddle shattered equipment, spewing wires and microchips onto places they're not supposed to be: The Cab floor. One of the screens is cracked, while stuffing from the seats attempts to escape their confinement. Yet, the sound of "Ave Maria" continues unrelented, saved by sheer divine grace from the onslaught of bullets. "Well, we did it..." A somewhat tired sounding Demarian voice finally answers, lowering to a whisper. "Crosscrash... I like that name..." And then all that remains is silence, the rumble of the engine, the sound of the tires, the music from the sound system, and the light patter of a crimson liquid dripping onto the cab floor below the drivers seat. But nothing more. Easy. "It sounds like one of those God-awful neo-punk bands, skip. I mean... really." Harris looks to the heavens once more, and once more no help is forthcoming, but it is at least a nice night. Stars and suchlike, pretty. He drops the barrel of the pulse rifle to check its level and grunts, "Where are we going, by the way?" Darktail doesn't know, and cannot answer even if he did. He's programmed it to take them far away though, according to the GPS planner, near to a small lake in the midst of this wasteland. But, at least they'll be safe. Sadly, the Snowcat can offer no more in way of answer than silence, for as his blood drips onto the ground, one might notice that the Demarian has a rather crimson-stained patch peeking out from under his jacket's right shoulder. A shoulder with a neat little hole in it, perfectly in line with a similar hole that rests in the drivers-side window, just in front of a forward slumped feline. "I /said/, where are we /going/? ... Skip? Skipper?" Harris pulls his attention back from stargazing, and if the Demarian /will/ keep his plans to himself, he can only blame himself for what happens next: the young Sivadian lets out a strangled cry and throws himself halfway across Darktail's lap in an effort to take control of what is an apparently un-controlled vehicle, and it takes several seconds for him to realize that his frantic attempts to turn the truck are availing him naught. So, on to problem number two... He throws his rifle into the back and rips an arm off his shirt in an effort to stem the bleeding as best he can, but without any medical facilities, there's not much he can do aside from bind the wound. He curses frantically and lays the Demarian down over the entire front seat...